Orchidelia: All you need is pop

The world needs more fun.

It needs more jangling guitars. More pop music. More people enjoying themselves without feeling obliged to apologise for it.

The world needs more Orchidelia.

In these troubled times, the prospect of five lads making some gloriously good-time rock ’n’ roll seems like just what the doctor ordered.

And so Orchidelia unleash their triumphant homecoming show on an unsuspecting Sheffield.

Yellow Arch Studios sits among the remnants of the city’s industrial past, in a neighbourhood where old workshops and warehouses increasingly rub shoulders with luxury apartments and fashionable bars. The steelworks may have fallen silent, but Sheffield’s history is never very far away.

Orchidelia know a thing or two about musical history themselves.

Although theirs is rather less industrial than their surroundings.

It’s more candyfloss and carnival. Beatles guitars collide with eccentric post-punk pop, Beach Boys harmonies surf past on waves of dayglo optimism, and somewhere in the distance The Monkees are probably arguing about whose turn it is to drive the tour bus.

It’s a musical world where the sun always seems to be shining, even when the weather outside suggests otherwise.

After a year spent playing support slots around the country, the prospect of Orchidelia‘s first headline show in over twelve months has brought out both the faithful and the newly converted to worship at their peculiar little church of pop.

And with an extended set at their disposal, the band have an opportunity to rummage through their increasingly substantial back catalogue.

Older favourites from their debut album Rosarium are dusted off and given a rare outing.

“We don’t play this one very often,” announces frontman Marcus as they prepare to launch into Who Is She.

“Big it up, why don’t you,” replies keyboardist Miles.

The song itself is a wonderfully understated, piano-led groove, drifting along like the memory of a perfect summer afternoon.

Before it, Dolores Hay has already filled the room with luscious harmonies, melodies floating past like Lucy staring at diamonds in the sky, before arriving at its now-traditional audience participation finale.

“La la la la.”

Everybody sings. Everybody claps.

Nobody needs much persuading.

But the laid-back moments are relatively few and far between tonight.

Orchidelia are here to throw a party, and they’re determined to take everybody along for the ride.

Recent single I Dried Up bursts into life with its infectious piano stomp, fuzzed guitars and glorious sense of abandon. The audience duly responds, the room beginning to bounce as the band career through one of their most exuberant numbers.

The sultry Midnight Café follows, initially content to lounge around in its own laid-back groove before gradually gathering momentum and erupting into a full-blown psychedelic freak-out.

Jim Morrison would probably have approved.

Although he might have looked slightly confused by the cheerful disposition of everybody involved.

Miles takes over vocal duties for crowd favourite Cradle To The Grave, a song about watching life race ahead of you while the years disappear with alarming speed into the rear-view mirror.

For this performance, he’s also equipped himself with a cowbell.

Unfortunately, the cowbell has ideas of its own.

Every time Miles strikes it, the instrument spins around its stand, forcing him to pursue it in an increasingly ridiculous game of musical cat and mouse.

Undeterred, the band thunder onwards while Miles gamely chases his percussion around its pole.

As the song crashes to its conclusion, drummer Ben begins enthusiastically clanging his own cowbell.

“You didn’t tell me you had one as well,” Miles admonishes him, towelling the sweat from his forehead.

It’s difficult to imagine this happening at a Radiohead concert.

A brief pause then descends into a surreal discussion about the correct sauce to accompany a fish-finger sandwich.

In fairness, support act The Fourth Act had introduced the subject earlier in the evening, but it’s precisely the sort of conversational diversion an Orchidelia gig seems perfectly capable of taking.

Somewhere along the way, the set resumes.

And now we’re heading into the final straight.

The glorious pop pomp of You’ll Never Know bounds into view before the band unleash their newly crowned anthem, Forget Me Not.

It’s a wonderful piece of guitar pop, all George Harrison-esque fretwork and shimmering harmonies, with guitarist Milo weaving his way through the arrangement without once compromising his air of studied cool.

One day, when I grow up, I want to be as cool as Milo.

The audience, however, aren’t remotely ready to call it a night.

One more song.

One more song.

And despite the band’s pre-show nerves about how the evening might be received, this is no polite, token gesture.

They’ve earned it.

Orchidelia return to the stage, this time accompanied by guest vocalist Carys McLoughlin, who brings an entirely different dimension to the closing numbers.

And boy, has she got some lungs on her.

Her rich, soulful voice soars across Serious Chat With The Ceiling, adding an extra layer of drama to its already elaborate arrangement.

Then comes It’s Alright, all glorious ELO-style pomp, sweeping melodies and the sort of extravagant musical ambition that suggests somebody has been listening to Out of the Blue rather a lot.

It’s only at this point that I realise bassist Jacob isn’t wearing his trademark baseball cap.

Sometimes it’s the little things you notice.

The party is in full swing now, and the ghost of George Harrison apparently hasn’t finished with us yet.

The Beatles’ Day Tripper has become the traditional finale to an Orchidelia show, and tonight it arrives in a glorious rush of guitars, harmonies and enthusiastic audience participation.

Everybody is dancing.

Everybody is singing.

The spirits of Beatles past would surely approve.

But they’re not quite finished.

In one final flourish, the band crank everything up another notch and launch into Twist and Shout.

The room erupts.

People are dancing, arms are waving and whatever lingering traces of a miserable autumn evening might have followed us through the doors have long since disappeared.

Nobody is frowning.

And then, finally, it’s over.

They came. They played some luscious tunes. They told a few jokes, chased a cowbell around the stage and conducted an impromptu symposium on fish-finger sandwiches.

They reminded everybody just how wonderful a three-minute pop song can be when it’s played with imagination, enthusiasm and a complete absence of self-importance.

Then they hung out with The Beatles and called it a night.

What’s not to like?

Orchidelia have just released I Dried Up on streaming platforms and their debut seven inch single Forget Me Not should hit the digital shelves any day now.